


Waiting

by annabagnell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Birth, M/M, Male Lactation, Mpreg, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-10 00:03:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7822441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabagnell/pseuds/annabagnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Tess,” Sherlock said, standing in front of the bedroom mirror with his hands at his sides, “it’s time to come out.” </p><p>He heard little feet at the bedroom door and he turned. “Yes?” he asked Cara, who was looking curiously at her mother. She walked forward and held her arms up, and Sherlock shook his head sadly. “I can’t hold you right now,” he said, patting his bump. “She’s in the way.”</p><p>Cara sighed and moved to hug him instead, her soft curls brushing the stretched skin of his lower belly. “Tess be here soon?” she asked, looking up at him with big blue eyes.</p><p>“Tessy will be here very soon,” Sherlock said, hoping he was right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> Got back into the swing of things, y'all.

“Who’s in mummy’s tummy?” John asked, bouncing Cara on his hip. The baby giggled and put her hand over her mouth, looking at Sherlock’s stomach with concentration. “Come on, love, who’s in there? Who’s in mummy’s tummy?”

 

“Tess!” She finally said, waving the hand that had previously been over her mouth in the direction of Sherlock’s middle.

 

Sherlock’s eyes wrinkled at the corners as he smiled. He smoothed his shirt over his bump, the wrinkles giving way to show off the round curve of it. “Tessy is in here, isn’t she,” he said, nodding back when Cara giggled and nodded again. “Do you want to say good morning?”

 

John set Cara down and let the toddler shuffle over to the sofa. She climbed up onto it with ease and put a soft hand on Sherlock’s belly, patting it. “Mornin’, Tess,” she said happily, leaning over to give the bump an exaggerated kiss.

 

They’d been quizzing Cara on the baby’s name for a little over a week, and it seemed that she was starting to make the connection that the wiggly thing inside mummy was going to be her little sister. It would be a little while longer until Tess arrived, but Cara had been too curious about mummy’s growing middle to keep from addressing it now.

 

“Tess is saying hello,” Sherlock told their daughter, a few light kicks drumming against his left side. “Hello, big sister Cara. Hello out there.”

 

“Hello Tess!” Cara crooned, giving the bump another kiss.

 

“I still like Greer,” John said, a false pout on his lips as he bent down to give Sherlock a kiss good morning. “It stuck with our short name theme. Good morning.”

 

“Good morning,” Sherlock replied. “I like Greer too, but it’s just a bit too Scottish for central London.” He rubbed the top of his bump. “Perhaps for the next one.”

 

“The next one?” John asked, raising an eyebrow. “Wasn’t aware we —“

 

“Perhaps for the next one,” Sherlock said again, stretching and rising with Cara on his hip.

 

 

 

That night, with Cara in bed sound asleep, Sherlock purred and rocked slowly on John’s lap. John’s hands were on his hips to keep him steady, letting Sherlock set the pace. The younger man was half out of breath as he moved up and down, baby’s bulk making their coupling more taxing than usual.

 

“The next one?” John asked, running his hand over the curve of Sherlock’s swollen middle.

 

Sherlock shivered forward into the touch. “You know I want more,” he said, moving smoothly up and down John’s cock. “You know I love carrying your babies.”

 

“I know you love it until about week thirty and then you do nothing but gripe at me,” John quipped, then let out a strangled moan when Sherlock clenched tight around him.

 

“I still love carrying your babies after week thirty, they just don’t carry quite as easily after that point,” Sherlock said, leaning forward and bracing himself on John’s chest, then continuing to move. “You try to imagine how it feels to carry a wiggly football between your hips for forty weeks and then we’ll see who’s griping.”

 

John laughed and ran his hand up Sherlock’s side again. He loved seeing his husband like this - so much more of him to touch and hold, and all of it soft and warm and smooth. “Having babies looks so good on you,” he said softly, feeling a rippling movement echo beneath his fingers.

 

Sherlock’s smile eased the look of concentration from his face and the pace slowed a little, really luxurious now. “I don’t have the figure I used to,” he said, but there was no sense of loss to his words.

 

“You’ve got the figure of a mum. A beautiful mum,” John said, lifting his other hand to cup Sherlock’s middle as the man rocked in his lap. He shifted, trying not to break the rhythm as he pushed himself up to half-sit, and took Sherlock’s nipple into his mouth.

 

The man let out a quiet cry and pushed his chest forward into the touch, the soft breast tissue moulding around John’s lips as he sucked softly. The sense of urgency returned to his movements and he tried to move faster, but the loose ligaments in his hips failed him too soon and he made a noise of near anguish when he couldn’t chase the pleasure the way he needed to.

 

“Got you, beautiful mum,” John murmured, moving an arm to wrap around Sherlock’s back, pulling him up and against John’s hard body. Sherlock’s hand found the back of John’s head and held on tight, and the blond responded by sucking more of Sherlock’s breast into his mouth and sucking.

 

“Hah, ah,” Sherlock gasped, grasping the headboard with his free hand to steady himself. John’s strong arm on his back, and the other hand now on his hip, moving him rhythmically, held him steady and close, picking up where Sherlock’s body had given up. “Ah, hah, John.”

 

John hummed around Sherlock’s nipple, biting down oh so softly and tugging, which earned him fingernails raking through his short hair. He felt thumping against his stomach, coming from Sherlock’s stomach, and picked up the pace even more, knowing he was pushing Sherlock possibly further than his weakened ligaments could stand. A whimper in his ear - pain or pleasure? both? - and the trembling of Sherlock’s thighs spurred him on. He released the nipple in his mouth, ducked and captured the other one.

 

Sherlock’s thighs were burning, his round ligament was aching with strain. He knew he’d barely be able to move the next day, but he didn’t want to stop. “Hha, aah, oh - god, ow, John,” he panted, trying to force his legs to move again though they’d all but given up. “Aah, please - just -“ he let out a whimper and gripped the headboard tighter, letting John bounce him on his lap and ignoring the strain on his legs as he let his partner fuck him harder and faster.

 

He arched his back when John bit his nipple hard, and the arch put the head of John’s cock just over his seam, and Sherlock let out a broken, throaty cry and shivered bodily in John’s lap as he came. Now, his orgasms were mostly internal, intense rippling and contractions of his channel around John’s cock, all culminating in a weak stream of clear liquid from his cock that glossed the bottom of his belly. He held on tight as John thrust twice more and then followed him into orgasm with a grunt. His breathing was loud and hot on John’s ear as little trails of electric pain crackled through his strained muscles, rendering him immobile on John’s lap. “I can’t move,” he said helplessly half a minute later, releasing his grip on the head board and bringing his hand to a fluttering halt on John’s shoulder.

 

John clucked sympathetically and shifted, Sherlock still on his lap, until he was sitting against the headboard. He could feel the minute trembling of Sherlock’s thighs, overworked, against his own legs and he ran both hands down the pale skin. “It’s going to hurt when I move you,” he said, sliding his hands up to caress Sherlock’s full belly.

 

Sherlock pulled a face. “I know,” he said, a moue of unhappiness briefly curling his mouth. “Do it.”

 

John counted down a quick ‘one, two, three’ and lifted Sherlock by the hips, wincing when the man coughed out a noise of pain. Sherlock’s arm flung out to brace himself on the mattress and he tried to use what upper body strength he had to pad his own controlled fall, but it mostly failed and he collapsed half on his back on the bed next to John.

 

The muscles in his legs and groin smarted with pain, and his eyes were squeezed tight shut. It felt for all the world like the corded muscles in his inner thighs had frayed apart. It took everything he had to roll onto his side and drag his upper leg into place on top of the lower one. “Ow,” he said pitifully, looking up at John through damp curls.

 

“Ow,” John sympathized, brushing the dark hair out of Sherlock’s eyes. “Got a bit lost, there at the end. Didn’t mean to hurt you.”

 

Sherlock shook his head and tugged at John’s hand until he laid down across from Sherlock. “It’ll be okay. Won’t be able to move tomorrow, but it was worth it.” He picked up John’s hand and traced his fingertip around the edges of John’s short, blunt fingers. He kissed the tips delicately and then released the hand once more.

 

John returned the favor by taking Sherlock’s elegant hand and kissing the prominent knuckles there. “I’m off tomorrow, so it’ll be a day of rest in bed for you. Mightn’t be a bad idea to take those here and there when you can; Miss Tess is taking it out of you a bit, I think.”

 

Sherlock sighed and ran a hand over the shape of his belly from stem to stern and back. “Bigger than Cara was,” he said, nodding. “I’ll be properly huge by the time she arrives.”

 

“You’re properly huge now,” John said, and didn’t bother moving out of range of Sherlock’s playful slap. “I’ll rub some liniment on your legs tomorrow morning and suck you off as an apology,” he said, pulling up the sheets to cover them both. “For…both the wearing out and the rudeness,” he added as an afterthought.

 

 

 

It took two full days for Sherlock to mostly recover, and even then his legs ached at the end of the day. Most mornings now began with Sherlock being pleasantly sated by John’s touch and then, smelling of mint, rolling out of bed to fetch Cara and help her down the stairs. Thankfully, their daughter had mastered steps a few months ago, because Sherlock quickly passed the point of being able to sling her around his hip. The baby was in the way, and growing more in the way every passing day.

 

“My darling, I wore this shirt on the very last day of my pregnancy with Cara,” he said one morning, pulling on what had, with his first baby, been a pleasantly loose top that draped over his belly. With Tess at just 36 weeks, the top was pulled taut around the widest part of his stomach and left the underside exposed. He tugged fruitlessly at the hem, shook his head, and made his way into the kitchen, swaying slightly from side to side as he had become wont to do. “Do you remember this shirt, John?” he asked, putting his hands on his sides and sliding them forward and back over the dark purple cloth.

 

John turned, squinted, and then rose an eyebrow in surprise. “I do,” he said, making an impressed face. “I believe you wore that when we went to the hospital to have her.” He jerked a shoulder in Cara’s direction. “Must’ve shrunk in the wash.”

 

Sherlock shook his head. “It didn’t,” he said plainly, bending down to pull the milk from the fridge. He rested the jug on his bump as he straightened back up, putting a hand on his lower back as he did. “Oof. I’m not sure I’ve got four weeks left in me,” he said, shuffling forward to pour milk over his cereal.

 

John watched closely as Sherlock put the milk back and sat at the table. “I’m not sure you have either, love,” he said. Sherlock had gotten truly large with this baby, and it was taxing him more than John had expected it would. “We’ll see what your doctor thinks today. Maybe she’ll want you induced, if she thinks Tess is too big.”

 

Sherlock made a face. He disliked the idea of ejecting their baby from her home too early, but he felt huge and tired and was really very ready for Tess to arrive whenever she decided to. “We’ll see,” he agreed, and tucked into his cereal.

 

 

 

“Not for a little while yet, at least,” the doctor pronounced, putting her chart aside and folding her hands in her lap. “You’re measuring big, and so is she, but I don’t think we need an induction just yet. We’ll see what things look like at 38 weeks, and maybe then we might schedule you in. Do you want an induction, Sherlock?” she asked.

 

“Not really,” he said, glancing down at his bump. “I feel gargantuan, but I don’t like the idea of shunting her out before she’s ready. I want her to come when she’s done.”

 

The doctor smiled honestly. “I like hearing that,” she said. “Too many mums these days want scheduled babies. They just want their pregnancies to be over. That’s not to say inductions are bad, but in my opinion, babies come when they’re ready and not a minute before, and that’s the way it ought to be unless something’s wrong.”

 

“So long as she can fit to get out, she’s welcome to stay until she’s finished in there,” Sherlock said, rubbing his belly gently and feeling a slow stirring inside.

 

“Alright, then. No induction for now, checkup in two weeks, and we’ll see what things look like then,” the doctor said, standing up to shake Sherlock’s hand, then John’s, and leaving the room.

 

“I’m pinned,” Sherlock said after a long beat of silence. “Help me up.”

 

 

 

His 38-week appointment also resulted in no induction, though the doctor considered it for longer than she had last time. “Maybe next week, if she’s not here by then,” she’d said. Sherlock hadn’t yet dilated or effaced, but Tess had grown even larger.

 

At the 39-week checkup, the doctor nodded stoically and was ready to schedule Sherlock in, but he refused. “She can still fit to get out?” he’d asked, and she’d replied a hesitant but affirmative yes, and he shook her hand and she left the room.

 

He was regretting his decision three days later. Tess, who had dropped into the bowl of his pelvis overnight, felt heavier than she’d ever felt before, and it was all Sherlock could do to rise from a seated position. John made noises of sympathy every time Sherlock groaned his way into a standing position, itching to get up and help his husband with whatever task he’d decided to embark on.

 

“Tess,” Sherlock said, standing in front of the bedroom mirror with his hands at his sides, “it’s time to come out.” He turned to the side and pulled up his shirt. She was laid out as much as she could be inside him, and he looked mind-bogglingly huge.

 

He heard little feet at the bedroom door and he turned, feeling not unlike a barge fighting the current to move. “Yes?” he asked Cara, who was looking curiously at her mother. She walked forward and held her arms up, and Sherlock shook his head sadly. “I can’t hold you right now,” he said, patting his bump. “She’s in the way.”

 

Cara sighed and moved to hug him instead, her soft curls brushing the stretched skin of his lower belly. “Tess be here soon?” she asked, looking up at him with big blue eyes.

 

“Tessy will be here very soon,” Sherlock said, hoping he was right. “A few more days, Cara. You’re going to be a big sister.”

 

“Come out,” she mumbled into his hip, and Sherlock smiled.

 

“I want her to come out, too. Go back and see papa. I’ll be back out in a minute.” He ushered Cara back toward the door, and the sound of her footsteps echoed down the hallway as she headed back to the living room.

 

“You hear that?” he said, turning back to the mirror and stroking his sides slowly. “Come out. All of us are ready for you.”

 

 

 

 

“Help me up,” Sherlock grumbled. He’d managed to sit up, but couldn’t rise on his own from the mattress. On the other side of the bed, John grunted and rolled over. “Now. Please,” he added as an afterthought, gritting his teeth - he needed to pee, and his back ached, and if he fidgeted to relieve the ache it made the pressure on his bladder worse. He tapped his foot impatiently while John walked around the bed and hauled him up, and moved as fast as he could to the toilet.

 

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and leaned against the wall as he relieved himself. “Tess,” he mumbled, “it’s time to come out.” Tomorrow would be 41 weeks, and he would be induced in two days if she didn’t get here before then. He was surprised his doctor had let him go this long - of course, he’d been fairly stubborn in wanting a natural birth, but still - the baby was huge, and so was he.

 

He managed to stand up on his own - a feat, these days. His sleep shorts gave up and rolled over beneath the curve of his belly as he pulled them up, and his shirt was barely hanging on. He brushed his teeth, standing half-sideways to be able to bend over and spit in the sink, and then went back into the bedroom. “Get up,” he said to the already-snoring lump on the other side of the bed. “We’re going to go for a walk.”

 

 

 

 

“A walk?” John said half an hour later, still as incredulous as he’d been when Sherlock first suggested it. “Sherlock, you can barely stand on your own. A walk will do you in.”

 

“I want it to do _her_ in,” Sherlock said, tossing another shirt to the side in search of one that could cover his bump. “I want to move her around some, see if she decides she can come out already. I _don’t_ want to be induced,” he said crossly, pulling on another shirt. It covered more than the first one had, which at this point was all he could ask for. The stretch waistband of his trousers was folded over three times in hopes of staying up.

 

John finished putting Cara’s shoes on and shook his head. “Alright, but we’re not going far,” he said.

 

“As if I could.”

 

 

 

They made it as far as the edge of Paddington Park Gardens before Sherlock got winded and had to sit down. He slumped on the bench, rubbing his belly slowly. Cara jumped in a pile of leaves that had just been raked, and John got up to go catch her before she did any more damage. “So, Tess,” Sherlock said ponderously. “What do you think?”

 

There was no answer, but he hadn’t expected one. He could only hope that the walk would spur something to happen soon. He sat for a little while longer and then hauled himself up to stand. He straightened up and pressed a hand to his lower back to ease a crick, and then felt a sickening swoop of nausea that had him almost doubled over. He was braced against the park bench when a cramp grabbed at his spine and held on tight, leaving him panting. He was still trying to catch his breath when John ran back over. “Sherlock?”

 

“Contraction,” Sherlock said, flinging out an arm to grab at John. Cara made an uncertain noise and plastered herself to John’s thigh, brow furrowed.

 

“Mummy?” she asked quietly, and Sherlock shook his head.

 

“I’m fine, lovie,” he said, prying an eye open to look at her and then inhaling deeply when the spasm released. “Look, see, all fine.” He let John bolster him up and he leaned heavily against him, more winded than he’d been when he first sat down.

 

“Was that real?” John asked, helping Sherlock back to the bench and lowering him down. “Was that —“

 

Sherlock nodded and swallowed. The nausea was still there, but not as bad as before. “I think so,” he said, and smiled wryly as John let out a whoop.

 

“Let’s go home,” he said. “You’re having a baby.”

 

 

 

Sherlock was insistent on walking back. It was only a few blocks, but the time it took them to make it back home meant he endured three more contractions en route. John explained to Cara that this was okay, that mummy was fine, and that this meant Tess was coming. This brightened Cara’s mood significantly.

 

When they got home, Sherlock went immediately into the bath and turned on the shower, standing under the hot water. They enlisted Mrs. Hudson to entertain Cara while John attended to Sherlock, who was at once eager to have their daughter and so exhausted already that he wasn’t sure if he’d have the energy to bring her forward.

 

He was braced against the wall when a strong contraction came along, and rippled from his lower back clear around his pendulous belly. He could feel his muscles drawing up, his uterus contracting inward to expel the fetus it had housed for more than nine months. Tess’s head, which had rested in his pelvic cradle for more than a week, ground bluntly against his cervix, pushing it open even as his body’s hormones dilated it. His thighs were already quaking with the effort of standing up, reminiscent of the way they’d felt so many weeks ago when he was on top of John.

 

John stood up behind Sherlock, rubbing his side through the contraction. “You’re doing well,” he murmured, his left hand kneading Sherlock’s back while the right patted and soothed. “She’s on her way. She’ll be here soon.”

 

“If I can fit her,” Sherlock said. Tess’s body felt too large inside him now. He’d been so sure of his capability only a few hours ago, but now, faced with the gargantuan effort of childbirth, he wasn’t so certain.

 

“She’s big,” John said, nodding. “I know she is. But your doctor said you could do it, and if you can’t, we can call an ambulance. But I think you can do it. You grew her, you can certainly deliver her.” He pulled the shower head from its cradle and aimed the pulsing hot water at Sherlock’s lower back, which drew a moan from the laboring man. “I’m here to help.”

 

They stayed in until the water ran cold, and then Sherlock moved on unsteady legs out of the shower and into their bedroom. He almost collapsed on the bed, his ligaments loose to let Tess through and too loose to hold his hips steady. He closed his eyes against an oncoming pain, but pinned as he was on his back, he couldn’t do anything to head it off. He held John’s hand tight through the spasm, gasping and moaning through it.

 

“Gonna have to get you into a position where you can stand to be for awhile,” John said gently, helping roll Sherlock onto his side and putting a pillow between his thighs to ease some of the strain on his hips. “Can you manage hands and knees, do you think?”

 

“My thigh muscles are shot,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. If the pregnancy itself hadn’t done them in, the short walk had.

 

He stayed on his side for as long as he could stand it, trying to save up what little strength he had. All too soon the contractions became pressing, and it felt like the baby had dropped even further and was pressing against his ripening cervix. “I need to move,” Sherlock gasped at the tail end of a contraction, shaking his head. “Help - I need to move, I need her to move down more.”

 

John helped pick him up and set him down in a deep squat on the bed. Some of the pressure ebbed, but he couldn’t move out of this position on his own, either. He held onto the headboard for support and tried to concentrate on what he needed to do to bring their daughter forth.

 

Time slipped away from Sherlock as he squatted on the bed, breathing deeply through contraction after contraction that tore at his strength and stamina. At one point he heard Cara’s soft voice near him, and John’s quiet reply. He felt a butterfly-soft kiss on his cheek and turned his head, opening bleary eyes. Cara was there, concern written on every inch of her face. Sherlock tried to smile, and reached out with one hand to brush through her curls, to comfort her. “Okay, love. Mummy’s okay.”

 

“Hurt? Ow?” Cara asked. Clearly, he’d been too loud; Cara had heard from the living room.

 

“I told her you were fine,” Mrs. Hudson said softly, a soothing presence at the edge of the mattress. “But she heard you and needed to see you. I told her that her little sister will be here soon.”

 

“She will be,” Sherlock said, nodding and trying to put on a brave face for their oldest daughter. “See, she’s coming. Mummy just has to work a bit harder to get her here.” Slowly, achingly, he let go of the headboard and sank deeper into the squat, trying to sit upright for Cara to see. “Still in here,” he said, touching his belly tenderly. “She’ll be out soon.”

 

John scooped up their daughter and bounced her on his hip. She continued to look at Sherlock, concerned for her mummy. “Go back out with Granny,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Mummy needs to be alone for a bit. He’s got to work very hard for Tess to come out.”

 

Cara said a quiet okay and let herself be given back to Mrs. Hudson, who fluttered a hand in a goodbye and retreated to their sitting room. John sat next to Sherlock on the bed, taking his hand and squeezing it. “I’m so tired,” Sherlock said after a moment of silence.

 

“I bet you are,” John replied, and leaned close to his partner as if lending him strength. They lapsed into quiet again, waiting.

 

The contractions came quicker and quicker, each one pulling at Sherlock’s worn body until he felt ragged at the edges. Finally, he felt a release of pressure like a rubber band snapping and felt his thighs soak with warm fluid. “Waters,” he rasped, gasping as he held onto the headboard.

 

“Yeah,” came John’s anxious reply, and a soft towel wiped at Sherlock’s skin to dry it. “Time to push?”

 

“Not yet.” Sherlock knew he was close, knew it was almost time, but the urge wasn’t there yet. Another contraction grabbed him and pulled him down, and he cried out with pain. It released after a minute of unbearable pressure, and he coughed out John’s name.

 

“I’m here,” John said, and his hands were on Sherlock’s shoulders and arm. “I’m right here. You’re ready, love, you’re almost done.”

 

With the next contraction came the need to push, to expel. Sherlock’s voice, hoarse and hollow, filled his ears as he bore down, taxing his muscles even more than they’d already been taxed as he worked to birth their daughter. He felt her move within him, felt her stretching at his body that had opened for her. Her head was blunt and huge inside him.

 

John moved behind Sherlock and rubbed his thighs and buttocks and lower back, waiting. “I can see you stretching,” he said, Sherlock’s body gone wide in preparation. It took two more hard pushes for him to see the shadow of her head emerging, just centimeters inside his canal but coming down slowly. “I can touch her,” came the words, shaky. “She’s right here.”

 

Sherlock could feel every part of her body as he labored to deliver it. Her head, broad and curved, leading the way, her shoulders caught for a moment in the cradle of his pelvis until, with the end of a contraction, they gave way and slid down. “I can’t,” he rasped in anguish, pinned in place with pain and pressure.

 

“You can, she’s crowning, keep going.” Dully, Sherlock felt John’s fingers just inside him, and felt a hot pain burning at the ridge of his hole as she stretched it. He let out a cry and pushed harder, shaking with strain. “That’s it, that’s it, her head’s coming out —!”

 

He felt the release of pressure and another rush of fluid released as her head emerged. He gasped, feeling hollow and drained, sweat beading at his brow and rolling down his forehead. “Can’t,” he said again, unable to move or shift at all to find a better position to bring her forth. His legs refused to move.

 

“You can,” John said again. “I’ve got her, Sherlock, got her head and her shoulders are right there, no cord, push again and she’ll be here, I promise.” John’s voice was wet and a little reedy, and Sherlock knew he was crying. He drew in a shallow rattling breath and pushed again.

 

Nothing happened, and then everything happened, and her shoulders burst forth with another waterfall of fluid and the rest of her body slid from his in a rush of limbs and wetness. There was a beat of silence where all he could hear was the ringing in his own ears and then the sound of a baby’s first high wail filled the room. He tried to turn but couldn’t move his legs, and had to crane his neck to see over his shoulder.

 

Behind him John had laid the baby on a towel and was wiping her roughly. Her face was wrinkled in a cry and her tiny fists waved in the air, a protest. “Tess,” he said weakly, and twisted to hold his arms out, desperate to feel her warmth and weight in his arms.

 

“Yeah,” John said, and picked up her damp body. He slid her between Sherlock’s thighs - cord too short to hold her otherwise - and Sherlock reached for her around the swell of his belly and then there she was against him.

 

She fit perfectly in the crook of Sherlock’s arm, her head cradled in the join of his elbow and her bottom resting in the palm of his hand. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he traced her ear, her cheek, caught her hand with his finger and stilled its movement. “Tess,” he said brokenly. “Tess.”

 

John laid a towel over Sherlock’s shoulder and draped it over the newborn. She quieted little by little as her body heat rose from resting against her mother, insulated by the cloth. Her lower lip quivered as she let out little whimpers, the fractious movement of her arms and legs calming. John crowded at Sherlock’s side to gaze on their daughter.

 

She had a thick head of dark hair. Cara had too, but with her father’s coloring. Tess took after her mother, full lips with a pronounced bow and a button nose. She was purple at first, but as the minutes went by and John cut the cord she brightened to a pale pink. Soon she had all but fallen asleep, her lips moving and hands clenching and unclenching - a movement Sherlock had felt for weeks, but now she was testing it out on her own.

 

As the adrenaline from Tess’s birth ebbed, Sherlock started to feel the exhaustion that he’d been battling for hours try to overtake him. “I need to lie down,” he said, trying to move and then letting out a quiet cry as his thigh muscles crackled with pain. “Can’t move.”

 

Tenderly, John took Sherlock by the hips and lifted him. Sherlock tried to help, but his muscles had given up. He held the baby as steady as he could while John manipulated him into something of a controlled collapse, and he held back his noise of pain as John stretched his legs out into place. Tess burbled sleepily against his chest, and he tried to focus on her while John did his work to settle Sherlock into place.

 

The movement resulted in another contraction jolting Sherlock back into focus. He said as much to John and the doctor moved up the bed to rub at Sherlock’s belly, encouraging the uterus to expel the afterbirth. Sherlock bit back more noises of discomfort as little contractions rolled through his middle, and he gave two weak pushes that brought the placenta forward and out. John rubbed his belly for a few more minutes until he felt Sherlock’s womb contract and stay hard, quelling the bleeding. He gathered the placenta and the worst of the soiled towels and put them into a bag, setting them aside.

 

“Alright. Baby and placenta both out and both where they’re supposed to be. How _are_ you?” John asked, sitting on the edge of the bed next to Sherlock.

 

“Deeply tired,” Sherlock said, sounding it. “And in a lot of pain.”

 

“Yeah, I bet so. Do you want - I mean, they’re both out there and I’m sure they’re anxious to see her, but we can make them wait if -“

 

“Make me a cup of tea and bring me two paracetamol and when I’ve had both of those, they can come see her,” Sherlock said with a weak smile, shifting the baby in his arms.

 

“Good man,” John said, leaning over to give Sherlock a kiss and then leaving.

 

He heard a smattering of excited but quiet voices through the closed door after John left, and looked down at Tess. She was half asleep, moving her arms and legs slowly and making quiet smacking noises. “Hello, my baby,” he murmured, lifting her up to smell her and kiss her tiny cheeks and forehead. “Hello, my Tess. You came to meet us at last.” She responded by making a little noise, and Sherlock’s heart ached.

 

John returned soon with a cup of tea and a bottle of pills. Sherlock took both, nursing the tea slowly. John took Tess for a moment and put her in a nappy, cleaning her perfunctorily with a damp cloth and then swaddling her in a blanket. He helped Sherlock into a state of partial redress and changed the flat sheet, and then gave the baby back to her exhausted mother. After wiping some of the sweat from Sherlock’s face and neck, John went out to fetch their daughter and her grandmother.

 

“Quietly,” he heard John whisper as he opened the door. Cara ran quickly to the side of the bed and climbed up, and Mrs. Hudson was only a little slower to arrive. “There she is,” John said proudly, putting a hand on Sherlock’s knee.

 

“Oh, what a love,” Mrs. Hudson said tearily, hands fluttering over her heart and mouth. “Sherlock, what a beautiful baby you’ve made. Oh, she’s just perfect, isn’t she.” Sherlock felt a swell of pride - he had made a beautiful baby, a perfect baby.

 

“Tess?” Cara asked, her little voice piping up. “This is Tess?” She looked at the baby in awe.

 

“This is Tess,” Sherlock said, nodding. “She came to meet us, finally. What do you think?” he asked her, shifting so she could see more of the baby’s face.

 

“Little,” Cara said emphatically. Sherlock laughed.

 

“She didn’t feel little coming out.” Mrs. Hudson made a noise of understanding, and John chuckled.

 

“Actually, she’s pretty big for a baby,” he said, sounding slightly impressed. “Should’ve weighed her before I dressed her. Mind if I do that now?” he asked, reaching out for the baby.

 

Sherlock handed her over, slightly reluctant. Cara snuggled against his side and watched as John set the baby on the scale next to the changing table. “Good god,” he said after a moment, then picked Tess back up and gave her back to her mother. “How does ten pounds, eight ounces sound?” Mrs. Hudson made a noise of shock.

 

“Sounds about right,” Sherlock said drily. “I certainly feel like I just birthed a ten pound, eight ounce baby.”

 

After a few minutes, Mrs. Hudson took Cara and bade them goodbye. Their oldest was going to sleep downstairs that night, and give Sherlock and John an evening to themselves without having to worry about taking care of their eldest along with the brand-new baby girl.

 

John gave Tess a proper bath, dressed her in a soft baby grow, and held her for a little while. Sherlock took an hour’s nap and woke up feeling a little less exhausted. “I want to feed her,” he said. John gave the baby back to Sherlock, who pulled his shirt up to bare a breast full of milk for their daughter. He held her to his nipple, fidgeting a bit until he remembered how best to hold a nursing baby, and then to his delight she rooted and took hold, suckling hungrily.

 

“That’s my girl,” he crooned, heart full of love and pride as she nursed from him. She drank for several minutes, making quiet grunts. Sherlock had forgotten how much he loved this, with Cara - there was nothing he loved more than nursing a baby. He felt tears well up in his eyes and let them fall. “That’s my girl.”

 

Later, after she’d been burped, changed and redressed, John laid her down on her back in the bassinet by the side of the bed. “It’s time for us all to get some rest,” he said, turning off the lamp on his side of the bed and dimming the one on Sherlock’s. The clock flashed 11:46 p.m. - Sherlock had gone into labour at just past nine in the morning, delivered her at nine in the evening and fed her at 11 p.m. It had been a long day and tiring for everyone, but especially for Sherlock.

 

The man laid on his side, facing Tess’s bassinet, and John curled up behind him, one arm laying over his waist. His warmth ebbed into Sherlock’s tired muscles, relaxing them a little, and within a minute Sherlock was asleep, too deeply to dream. Tess’s quiet but regular breaths lulled John to follow. Downstairs, Cara slept in bed with her granny, dreaming of a dark-haired little sister she’d been waiting so long to meet.


End file.
